


hold my body back

by endquestionmark



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: F/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-22
Updated: 2015-04-22
Packaged: 2018-03-25 05:24:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3798358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/endquestionmark/pseuds/endquestionmark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“No,” Foggy had said, “bear with me — nobody’s going to make you do anything, Matt. I mean, you don’t have to wait, or not—“ he’d gestured in the air “—touch yourself, or move, but. If you do, if you can stay on that bed until we’re done, and if you wait, if you listen and you’re good for us, well.” And he’d laughed silently, a forceful exhale that Matt remembered to be paired with a disproportionately smug grin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	hold my body back

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact: it's impossible to write an entire fic to a soundtrack consisting solely of "Ave Maria".

“You don’t have to wait,” Foggy had said, back when they were all still fully clothed, slumped in their various postures of fatigue on Matt’s couch in the front room at the end of one of those infinitely elastic weeks, overtime on top of overtime and too much coffee as connective tissue. Karen had kicked her shoes off with a sigh of relief, the clatter of heels unmistakable; Foggy was taking up as much of his half of the couch as humanly possible, heartbeat slow and steady, breathing deeper than it had been for days of staccato research and reasoning.

What Foggy had said first was more along the lines of “Hey, you know what would be a great idea?” but, to be fair, Matt lost track of his exact phrasing around the time he finished his thought with “if I ate Karen out for, oh, I don’t know, a week? And you stayed on the bed.”

“This doesn’t seem exactly fair,” Matt had pointed out.

“Well, I mean,” Karen had said, “no objection, obviously, but—”

“No,” Foggy had said, “bear with me — nobody’s going to make you do anything, Matt. I mean, you don’t have to wait, or not—“ he’d gestured in the air “—touch yourself, or move, but. If you do, if you can stay on that bed until we’re done, and if you wait, if you listen and you’re good for us, well.” And he’d laughed silently, a forceful exhale that Matt remembered to be paired with a disproportionately smug grin.

“Well,” Matt had said drily. “I was thinking of taking a nap anyway, you know, to make some inroads into my, oh, decade’s worth of sleep debt backlog? So that sounds great, honestly.”

“How generous of you,” Karen had said, matching wit for wit. “Why don’t you go make yourselves comfortable and we’ll... get a head start?”

“How can I resist,” Matt had said, and now, headed for the bedroom in sock feet, he shrugs off his jacket as he goes. Cufflinks clinking in the bowl on the chest of drawers by the sliding doors, tie whispering its way onto its hanger, shirt less crisp than it had been in the morning, like folded paper, but still distinct, and none of it loud enough to distract Matt from the sound of Karen and Foggy kissing, the distribution of weight on the floorboards, the way the couch settles as they move.

He takes his time, trousers folded and draped, undershirt pulled over his head and discarded in the laundry basket, and when he finally sits on the bed, pushing his hands through his hair and rolling his neck to chase the tension from his shoulders, he’s naked on the silk sheets, cool and smooth against his skin. _Don’t touch_ , Foggy had said, and _if you’re good for us_ , and for all that Matt loves the work he does, in the office and out of it, it’s been a long week, and he just wants to be taken care of, to be good enough, to be praiseworthy according to the people he loves.

He stretches out on his back, hands by his side, and only loses track of where he is and what’s happening around him when he lets himself relax, one muscle group at a time, tensing up and then sinking into the sheets. He barely notices when Karen and Foggy stumble into the room, but they pause, and Karen makes a fond little noise in her throat, tilts her head — the rustle of her blouse, already half-undone — and Matt knows what Foggy must look like, that helpless half-grin of his when he knows that, for once, description isn’t necessary.

“Look,” Karen says, her voice pitched the way she does when she really wants something with her whole being, with the conviction that everyone else in the room does too, a little higher than usual, a little playful, but still stating a fact. “He’s doing so well, Foggy.”

“Well, let’s not jump the gun here,” Foggy says, and he’s lost his jacket somewhere along the way, shirt half-untucked, tie loose around his neck, silk rustling. “We’ve barely gotten started, and we both know how Matt likes to please.” Matt doesn’t move, but heat curls down his spine, and controlling his breathing suddenly becomes considerably more difficult. He squeezes his eyes closed, and Karen tiptoes over to the bed, footsteps light and legs bare, tights and skirt lost while Matt was undressing and arranging himself, the whisper of skin on skin.

Suddenly she’s right by his ear, whispering into the pillow as he turns instinctively towards her voice. “You’ll be so good, Matt,” she says, “I know you will,” and he closes his eyes at that, breathes deep to center himself, and that’s a mistake, because she smells so good. He picks up the base notes of her perfume, dried down from honeysuckle to vanilla, and the cotton blend of her blouse; the salt of her skin, warmth on her breath, and God help him, she’s so wet, and he wants to taste her so badly, practically can already. Musk and humidity, heady and overwhelming, and he’s hard now, has to work at keeping his hips on the bed and his hands by his side and his back straight, not arching for a touch that isn’t going to come.

“What?” Karen says, mock-offended, straightening, and that means that Foggy’s given her a look of fond exasperation.

“You’re so good, Matt,” he says, “you’ll do so well, by the way, let me do everything short of touching you to make you come all over yourself. You don’t play fair, Karen Page.”

“Foggy Nelson,” she says, voice echoing as she meanders towards him through the empty space in between, the heat of her body fading until she hooks a finger into his trousers, belt creaking, and pulls him back with her. Both their heartbeats are picking up now, and Matt can feel it in his ribcage, in the way he’s suddenly aware of the pressure of his pulse and the rise and fall of his chest as he grasps at sensation, vicariously. He presses his fingers into his thigh, thumb digging into the muscle.

Against the wall at the head of the bed, Karen pulls Foggy back by the front of his open shirt, kisses him open-mouthed and loudly. Matt listens to the way her breathing gets shallow and her heart thumps, and he knows the moment when she breaks away before she actually does it, gasping for air as Foggy kisses down her throat, scraping his teeth over her collarbone. She’s got a hand in his hair, pulling him, because Foggy’s breathing is a particular type of quick that Matt’s grown to recognize with time and proximity. The buttons of her blouse tick loose in quick sequence, and she sighs in relief, pushing Foggy away long enough to undo her bra, which smells of her sweat and deodorant, and lands somewhere on the floor.

When she steps out of her underwear, Matt digs his nails into his thigh, and against his best efforts he can’t help the noise he makes, chokes it down in his throat, and they barely pause, Foggy sliding a hand between Karen’s legs to spread her, sink two fingers into her to the first knuckle and then again, deeper this time. Matt can feel it in the way she gasps and shoves her hips forward, how she sighs when Foggy does something with his other hand under her shirt and she arches all the way off the wall except for the points of her shoulder blades. He’s so hard that he’s starting to leak, now, wet on his stomach and that he can smell in the air. Matt bites down on his lip, but that’s too much sensation, and so he presses his head back into the pillow instead, bares his throat and fists his hands in the sheets, muscles aching with the effort of control.

Matt hears the moment when Foggy goes to his knees, the pull of fabric and the way he recovers his balance, and he gasps aloud. Foggy leans in to lick where his fingers are holding Karen open, and then Matt loses track of precisely what’s happening in the soft sounds of it, the way Karen’s gasping for each breath and the slide of Foggy’s fingers, the pleased noises he’s making in his chest.

Matt can smell just how wet she’s getting, down her thighs, streaking Foggy’s shirt, and he thinks about kissing Foggy, licking the taste of her out of his mouth, how drunk Foggy would be on sensation and of Karen twisting her hands into his hair, pulling Matt’s head back and baring his throat, of either — both — of them, kissing him, marking him, anything for more sensation. His skin feels too small, and he’s running too hot; Matt feels like he’s going to go to pieces, incandescent, without ever being touched.

When Foggy finally gives Karen what she wants, pulling back to work her clit with his thumb, Matt only knows because of the way she cries out, hips jerking, and he gasps in time with her, and feels the strain in her thighs in the way he digs his heels into the sheets, pushing up against nothing. Suddenly it’s too much — the sounds she makes, the cut-time cadence of her heartbeat, the way that she’s all he can smell, simultaneously all-encompassing and incorporeal — and he realizes, almost as an afterthought, that his eyes are wet, that there are tears sliding down his cheeks, and that he’s arched off the bed, muscles screaming, making noises that he didn’t recognize as his.

Karen says “God, please, come on, _oh_ ,” in a voice that sounds the way Matt feels, desperate and wrecked, and Foggy must lick over her clit then, the speed and pressure that she wants so badly, because she grabs at his hair. Foggy moans, at that, and then doesn’t let up, and Matt knows when she starts to come, hips stuttering, somehow even wetter, gasping, and he’s almost there with her — so close — but where she’s vocalizing satisfaction, long vowels from her throat, he’s profaning, vocalizing desperation the only way he knows how. Here, stripped down to the conflagration of needs that he keeps tucked away for so much of his life, he takes refuge in belief, in the words he was taught before he even knew what they meant or invoked, their resonance and significance.

When Karen comes to him, first, as she does, she settles on the bed by his head. She wipes the tears from his face, strokes his hair back from his forehead as if anointing him, and strokes along his jawline, letting him push his head into her hand, gasp against her palm. “You’ve been so good,” she says, and he cries more at that, tries to turn his face away, but she gentles him, fingers along his throat, and whispers praise, tells him how well he’s done, and how pleased they are, and that they’ve got him now. She tells him, in her soft and undeniable way, that they’re there to take care of him, to love him, to help carry the burdens he chooses and those he doesn’t, and to be by his side when he falls, to bear him onward and upward.

When Foggy settles on the foot of the bed, he brushes his fingers up Matt’s thigh, whisper-light, and Matt arches so hard that he feels the fabric under his body tangle and slip, winding-sheets. “We’ve got you,” Foggy says, simple and beautiful and as a consequence true, “Matt, we’re here, come on,” and Matt’s dripping on his belly, hips hitching up into the air, but it’s only when Foggy presses two fingers into the ligament in Matt’s thigh, when Karen presses hard at the hinge of his jaw, that he finally lets go, stops trying to bite back the noises and stops holding himself in his body, commits himself to their keeping entirely, and shakes apart.

Matt knows he makes noises, visceral and wounded, and that he flinches both towards and away from their touch; he’s aware of his own heartbeat, and the way it drowns out everything else, and then he’s aware of the way he’s gasping for air as if he’s just broken the surface, deep juddering breaths that hurt his ribs, and make him feel as if he’s been released from some crushing pressure.

When he finds the strength to roll onto his side, he curls up, and Karen lets him lay his head in her lap, the soiled top sheet puddling on the floor like drapery. Foggy curls up behind her, stroking a soothing hand down Matt’s side, steady pressure where anything more or less would be overwhelming. “Thank you,” he says, and Matt, wrung out, lets himself believe it, lets their praise sink into his skin and lets himself take it to heart. In this single moment, he lets himself be loved and held, and, to these people for whom he will never feel good enough, and whose love he will never deserve or understand, thinks that just maybe he, body and soul, will suffice.


End file.
